Perhaps I’m a party-pooper by nature and nurture. When I was a kid I heard the music from the ice cream truck then excitedly asked my father for a quarter.
“No,” he said, “they play that music when they’re out of ice cream.”
Unless you never heard that one, it’s an old one. Otherwise, it’s mine. But the risk of being condemned as a killjoy makes me defensive. “Our” team won, didn’t it? That’s what counts! USA! USA!